Give Me What I Know Is Mine
by BlueBohemian
Summary: WWRY from Meat's POV.
1. No Time For Compromise

**No Time For Compromise**

We are the Resistance, the last hope. We are the Bohemians. We had a choice, we broke Free. We wanted it all - to be a shooting star, a tiger, to defy the laws of gravity. We wanted to be champions. I am Meatloaf; this is our story. Well, mainly mine actually, but it's of the Bohemians in general.

I don't know how old I was when I realised I was different, but I was young though, very young. And then I met Brit, well, he was Tom then. He was two years older than me, and different too: a rebel, my one link to something resembling individuality. Then Globalsoft came after us, and we ran. We went underground; then we were found by the Bohemians. They took us in – you could never meet kinder people. And they were like us: rebels. So, we became one of them, lived like them, hoped like them, waited like them. For two years, we hoped, and waited for 'The Dreamer' who was prophesied to save us. Save the world. So, two years on is where our story really begins.

Brit and I were out searching for items with which to make instruments. Instruments are our one tenuous link to the past. The past we are trying to revive.

We were in the tunnels, and of course Brit wants to go to the surface. I know we'll find more stuff up there, but it really isn't safe. He looks up through one of the manhole covers, 'It's pretty clear up there Meat!'

Of course it LOOKS clear; it's what the SP's do best – hiding. 'Are you sure the cops have gone?' I know I'm being picky and overly cautious, but we can't afford not to be. The second we're found we'll be arrested, tortured, killed, and god knows what else.

Instead of answering my question Brit tells me, 'I'm going up to the surface!' At times, I swear I could kill him, he's all act first, think later. Or, more often than not, not think at all.

'Well, be careful!' He starts to climb up through one of the covers, 'I'm coming up too!' If he can go up, so can I. I know he won't pay any attention to my warning, so one of has to be on the look out. I'm not being completely altruistic though - the lure of going up to the surface is so strong – we rarely go up, it's too dangerous. I can't really remember the last time I went up, and I want to breathe fresh air; it's stuffy and claustrophobic living down here.

'No! You are so stubborn!' he yells at me as I reach the surface.

'Yeah!' I yell back, it takes two to be stubborn, and I don't see you taking any care up here. But, I will grudgingly concede that it does appear, for the time being to be safe. And any way, 'But that's what you love about me!'

He ignores my comment, and changes the subject, 'So, what we got?'

I sort through the bag of bits we've picked up, 'Not much. It's mainly plastics and hydrocarbons.' And it doesn't look like we're likely to find much more up here, there's an old and rusting broken van, a falling down fence and some other junk. Nothing useful. 'But, we got a sheet of tin that we can wobble. Some pebbles that make a nice rattle, and a bottle we can blow across, and a piece of wire to twang.' Things that make noise! Or, if played right, make music!

'Sweet, sweet music!' Oh yeah! Sweet music! 'If only we could find another bit of wood to bang against the one we've got.'

'Yeah!' That would be nice, really nice. More music! Oooh. What's this? 'You naughty boy! I think I've found a piece of wood right here!' He's insatiable. Not that I mind of course.

'Oh yeah!' He's got that glint in his eye again. Looks like that van'll come in handy. 'No. Your job is to take this stuff back to the Heartbreak.' Or not.

'But Brit!' Take this stuff back to the Heartbreak? What is he thinking? He won't look behind his back. He's needs ME to do that for him.

'No. I travel alone.' I give him my best wheedling look, one that normally gets me whatever I want. He looks slightly guilty, and his tone softens, as though he's patiently explaining something to a naughty child. 'You know that. How can I do the things I have to do if all I'm thinking about is you?'

Well, if he puts it like that. But… 'Sometimes I wish you didn't care so much.' I glare at him, 'Sometimes I wish we'd never even heard of 'the vibe'!' Okay, well maybe I don't completely mean that, but it's bloody hard work missing him. It's very stressful – I never know if Globalsoft will catch him, whether he'll come back to me.

'You don't mean that!' The way he says it makes it sound like I've personally offended him, cut him to the core.

'No, I suppose not.' I say guiltily. 'But I miss you so much, baby – it's tougher every time you go away.' It is, I thought it'd get easier, but it doesn't. When he goes out on his own I keep thinking that each goodbye will be my last to him. Hence why I came with him today.

'I'll be back – I always come back! And one day, I'll bring the Dreamer with me!' Always. Sure, he's always come back so far, but he can't promise that he'll always come back. He doesn't know if Globalsoft have got any further in their search for us. None of us do. But the Dreamer…. At times it seems like he's the Dream. Nothing more than fiction, or our imaginations.

'Sometimes I think it's us that's dreaming. Perhaps the music really did die.' I've been wondering this for a while. We've been looking for the Dreamer for two years, the others for much longer than that. And the Bohemians before them, the ones that got caught, or died. It seems that ever since the music died there have been Bohemians waiting for a Dreamer. And I really don't think he'll come. Not after all this time. But, hope is all we have, without that we're lost. So I, we, have to keep on hoping that maybe we'll be saved one day. That maybe the vibe does exist after all.

Brit smiles encouragingly at me, 'It's only sleeping, babes! It's in a deep, deep sleep. It won't be me that wakes it – but one day, I'll find the man who can.' I hope so. I really hope so. 'And if I could just find it, that lost vibe, then we could share our love with the whole world! And you know what we get then, don't you babes?' Of course I know what we get then! Who doesn't? 'We get it all!'

But who is the Dreamer? Almost as though he's reading my mind, Brit starts to tell me about him. He's told me about him before – it's an old story, but one I like to hear all the same. 'Adventure seeker on an empty street, just an alley creeper, light on his feet.' That's us, and the Dreamer, he's a young fighter screaming, with no time for doubt. Full of pain and anger, unable to see a way out. 'It ain't much I'm asking, I heard him say, gotta find me a future, move out of my way.'

'Listen all you people, come gather round.' I dunno why I'm saying 'all you people' – I'm only talking to Brit, 'I'm gonna get me a game plan, gonna shake you to the ground.' The one piece of advice I remember being given so long ago – 'Knock 'em dead.' I prefer my phrasing though. 'Just give me what I know is mine. People do you hear me, just gimme the sign.' Just a sign, any sign that the Dreamer's going to come, that we aren't living on a futile hope. 'It ain't much I'm asking, if you want the truth.' Brit grins at me, and I know I'm right, he hope's not lost. He's still got it. 'Here's to the future, hear the cry of youth!'

Brit laughs at me, like he knows I haven't given up hope just yet. 'I'm a man with a one track mind,' he sighs. That's definitely true, given his stubborn nature. 'So much to do in one lifetime.' Yeah, find the Dreamer. But I think what Brit wants most is to live, and that is enough to fill a lifetime. That longing makes him the man he is – stubborn, with no time for compromise, and wheres and whys and living lies.

'So I'm living it all.'

'Yes, I'm living it all.'

'And I'm giving it all.'

'And I'm giving it all.'

Yep, we live it all, and we give it all. We give our all to life itself, and we give life to the other Bohemians. I slump against the van, still dejected by the fruitlessness of hope. Brit walks over to me, and whispers to me, 'I want it all and I want it now.'

I was about to suggest that if he wants it now, then the van might be suitable, but we were interrupted. There were voices approaching from behind us, a guy and a girl. Thinking they were GaGa kids, or the SP we hid.


	2. People Do You Hear Me?

**People Do You Hear Me?**

I wasn't paying all that much attention to their conversation, amusing though it was, but then the guy started calling the girl Scaramouche. This could only mean one thing, that he was the dreamer, or else that they were Globalsoft spies. I preferred the latter theory, Brit the first. I really don't see why though, after waiting for the dreamer so long it's a bit of a let down for him to be someone so, well, weedy. After that we started paying more attention to their conversation, to see if we could discover anything else about them. I poked my head around the side of the van, just in time to see the guy 'dancing'. 'Scaramouche' as she had no decided to be called, preferring that over Long tall Sally, Honky-tonk woman, Lucy in the sky with diamonds and fat-bottomed girl, appeared to hold the same opinion as me, that it was deathly embarrassing. I seriously doubt that the addition of a tennis racket would have made much difference.

I tried to point this out to Brit, but he wasn't having anyone put down the bloke he was now certain was The Dreamer. Having decided to be friends they appeared to be on the verge of moving on, well, I couldn't let these spies do that, so I told Brit that we should get them. I think it came out much louder than I had intended, and they probably heard me. Anyway, I rushed out and Brit, not being one to let me have all the fun followed.

Brit shoved the guy up against the side of the van, but the girl put up more of a fight than you'd expect from someone so small. Anyway, they needed questioning, and Brit didn't seem in much of a hurry to do it, so I did.

His dancing being enough of a criminal offence, never mind the fact that he either was the dreamer or a spy we had to get them and take them back to the Heartbreak Hotel. Even if it was merely for dancing lessons.

Although it came out slightly harsher than I'd intended, the 'Quick, bitch! Where'd your boyfriend get those words?' seemed to get a response. At least from the guy. The girl seemed more concerned with denying him being her boyfriend. Like I'm gonna believe that. You could smell the chemistry a mile off.

And that the guy hadn't seen the texts and didn't know what we meant? If that's true, well, maybe the Bohemians actually have a chance. He's a spy. No doubt about it. Anyway, it was Brit's turn to question them. Fairly obvious one, 'who are you?', I love it when his voice goes that deep. Turned out the kid had been asked this before. 'I don't know! Why do people keep asking me that? I am the walrus! This is Major Tom to Ground Control. Can you hear the drums, Fernando? I am the dancing queen!'

Wow. If he hasn't seen the texts he really is good. If he has, he's got a bloody good memory, and Cliff really needs to work on security around the Heartbreak.

It was enough to get Brit excited, 'You just hear these holy words, in your head?'

Like my arse is fat and hairy he does.

So the spy continued, 'Yes! I don't know where they come from! It's driving me mad, all these phrases and sounds, just stupid, useless phrases….I mean, what the hell is a tambourine man? What's the story, morning glory? Who WAS the real Slim Shady? It's torture! But all I know, and I don't even know why I know it, is that I really, really, really wanna zig-a-zig-ah.'

Wouldn't we all like to know! Well, he's a bloody good liar; he's got that going for him.

And being the dreamer too according to Brit, 'Meat, I think we've found him! This dude's the one! He's the man!' Oh for- he's a SPY! Just because he can spout a load of stuff that anyone who had seen the texts could, or anyone good enough at hacking into the forbidden websites on the internet. A GaGa kid or a spy perhaps? He is not the dreamer.

Or perhaps he is according to Brit. Geez, and he talks about me being stubborn. Okay then. Sure fire way to find out. 'Then test him! And his chick!' Well, she sure didn't seem to like that, 'His 'chick'? What am I now, poultry?' Well, she is a bit of a bird, so, yeah. Pretty much. We don't have time to argue, 'Test him!' It's dangerous for us to be above the surface, and he could be leading Globalsoft to us.

Okay, Brit really doesn't need to do the kung-fu, and with the sound effects as well. Dude, it's just not cool. Apparently the girl didn't think so either, 'Does he do that all the time?'

'Yeah. I love it!' Hey! It's not for her to diss my man! That's my job. My prerogative. But his voice, now that she really can't fault.

Oooh. Well would you look at that. Hear it, rather. He's continuing! **'**Mama, life had just begun but now I've gone and thrown it all away.' But he really didn't need to do the kung-fu before hand. Almost as bad as his dancing. Almost.

'He knows the text – but he's never read it! He's the man!' Way to state the obvious Brit.

Okay, so I will concede, maybe I overreacted slightly, but it's a big occasion! Maybe I shouldn't have thrown myself at him with quite so much force - I nearly knocked him over, but still, questions need answers. 'But what does it mean? Tell us! Who is Mama, who's been killed, why has it all been thrown away?' And maybe not so many questions at once. But it didn't matter. He didn't seem able to give them. For someone who's meant to be the dreamer he's not doing a very good job so far. And dude, seriously. You're not meant to continue! Particularly at that volume. Point proved you know. He may not know much, but I do. Sure as Globalsoft is a tyrannical dictatorship, he's coming with us. But we don't need her.

Evidently he does though. 'Hey I'm not going anywhere without Scaramouche.' Oh please. You're a big boy now, you don't need someone to wipe your nose for you when you've got an ickle sniffle. Fab, she doesn't want to come! Actually, that's a little offensive. And killers? Not human killers. I resent that accusation. Brit doesn't though, 'We are, baby! Killers, thrillers, and bizmillahs!' HEY! I resent that more. I'm his baby. He'd better not be getting any ideas.

Brit being incapable and awestruck, it was up to me to set the record straight. 'We're the resistance - the last hope!' And Brit continued, 'We are the bohemians!' It's this little dialogue we have whenever kids join us. It goes roughly as follows, of course it depends who's found the kids. It's kind of like an advertisement, or something you'd put on a CV. Ours is as follows:

Me:And now you have a choice. Are you ready to break free?

Brit:Do you want it all?

Me:To be a shooting star, a tiger?

Brit:Defying the laws of gravity!

Me:Are you ready to be champions!

And then the girl went, 'Nah, sounds a bit boring if you ask me'.

I completely misheard at first, and was thinking, 'Great, lets go!'. It's not everyday someone says they don't want to be a bohemian. Oh, hang on. She's joking. That's a relief. And then Brit does his spiel. The 'no going back' bit. 'Then understand this! If you come with us, if you join the bohemians, there's no going back to GaGa land. You'll be an outcast, forever, no longer a member of the cons-human race.'

'Sounds perfect. Let's go!' Indeed it does. What a day it is for these guys, escape GaGa land, and get found by us. What could be more perfect for them? To be in control I suppose. They've lost it all, they've put their entire faith in us.

Brit starts talking to the guy about the texts, leaving the girl looking a little lost. I walked over to her and whispered, 'and you're rushing headlong, you've got a new goal, and you're rushing headlong out of control.' She looked even more confused and lost, I suppose it was a strange way to start a conversation, but it sums up her situation perfectly.

It would seem that Brit has moved on from discussing the texts, and is having a similar conversation with the guy, 'and you think you're so strong, but there ain't no stopping and there's nothin' you can do about it.' The girl picks up on this and gives a slight smile – the first I've seen from her. 'No, there's nothing you can do about it.' Well Brit sure is making his point known.

As I turned round I saw the guy give a slight smile as well, he walks over to the girl, and taking her hand gives another slight smile. Almost simultaneously they say, 'nothing you can'.

I cut in with 'do about it',' and gave them a grin.

They smiled back, more openly this time, 'and there's nothing you can do about it.' The girl seemed a little scared of the guy, or maybe the fact that he was holding her hand, and removed it from his almost the instant she realised he was holding it. I was walking slightly ahead of them, and the girl – Scaramouche, the guy called her, tried to make conversation, 'So, how'd you two meet?'

Not quite the type of question I was expecting to be asked, but I answered nonetheless, 'He used to be a man with a stick in his hand.' She looks slightly confused, but he was a man with a stick in his hand. Well, it was more of a bat really- a baseball bat. I was drawn to him- he was different. Not a clone for a start. He had raw, natural talent. I laughed at her confusion, but it would have been mean of me not to explain, so I did. 'He was a baseball player, so, I suppose it was more of a bat really.'

Brit and the guy had caught up with us, and he gestured to me, 'She used to be a woman with a hotdog stand,' he explained. I was – I sold them at his games. I didn't like it but I had to have some way of earning money. Life was tough in 6L. Grotty little apartment, and my parents always fighting. I couldn't stay there all the time. I would have killed myself for sure, not just stopped at the knives, broken glass and whatnot. Of course Brit had it all in 2C, not as good as some, but still a hell of a lot better than me.

I started thinking about the first time we met outside of work, I hated it. 'Now you've got soup in the laundry bag,' I muttered. It really annoyed me at the time, but Brit couldn't have been kinder about it. When our paths crossed for the first time away from the pitch, I was doing the team's laundry- another of my many jobs, he was with a girl and she tossed her soup away carelessly and it landed on the clean laundry. I've never seen Brit so angry as he was then.

Brit must have heard me because he whispered to me, 'now you've got strings you're gonna lose your rag.' I couldn't help but give a little laugh - he started a fight with her in the street, a full blown slanging match. She was the one who made it physical though- she leapt at him- handbags and hair flying, scratching and slapping him.

'You're getting' in a fight and it ain't so groovy,' I laughed.

'When you're screaming in the night 'let me out of this cheap B-movie',' Brit grinned back. As I found out later, they were on their way home from the cinema. She chose the film and he'd hated every minute of it- she loved it of course. Their 'relationship' was a disaster waiting to happen from what I heard.

Damn. We'd forgotten about the other two. At times Brit and I get caught up in our own little world, and no one else can break into it. But, it looks like the girl's getting worried. Too far away from GaGa land for her liking no doubt. Where are we going? To the Heartbreak Hotel, in other words, 'We're going down hen!' Down's just about right, we're literally going down- deep underground.

The guy seemed to pick up on the fact that Brit and I were engrossed in each other, and our story. He sidled up to the girl, gesturing to us, 'when a red hot man meets a white hot lady'.

The girl cut him off with a laugh, something I never thought I'd hear from her – she seems too sullen for that. 'Soon the fire starts to burn and gets 'em more half crazy'. She may only be joking about me and Brit, but there seems to be a spark between those two… interesting…

But, I'm still not sure about her, she seems genuine, but… I dunno. I tried to turn round unobtrusively, see if I can make up my mind about her, but evidently the guy noticed as he whispered to the girl, 'Now they start freaking everywhere you turn, you can't start walking 'cause your feet got burned.' Well that's a good way to get her confidence up. I dunno, maybe I'm wrong. I hope so, she seems nice enough. I gave a half smile, it's ironic really, what I told them applies to me to, 'it ain't no time to figure wrong from right, cause reason's out the window, better hold on tight. I suppose that philosophy applies to everyone, but it's definitely true for these guys. Reason really is out the window- with love, life, everything. The whole shebang.

My my my, doesn't time fly when you're having fun! We were there. Home sweet home. I left it to Brit to welcome them, which sure enough, he did. We just had to hide them before they got found by Big Macca, but it was too late. He'd evidently heard us.


	3. Flying Too Close To The Sun

**Flying Too Close To The Sun**

Cocky idiot. 'Who're these two, Brit?' He always has to associate himself with Brit, purely because Brit is more 'famous' than him. Infamous more like. Of course Brit explains that this guy is the Dreamer, and I mean is. Even I'm convinced now. But his response, that really was uncalled for; 'The Dreamer? Just because he has a leather jacket does not make him the wild one. Looks like a clone from the 'zone to me.' Seriously, what is his problem? He really should trust us more. Brit at the very least, if not me. And when Brit said this dude calls himself Galileo, Big Macca is convinced he's a spy. That's what I said, and if I'm convinced, he really should be too. I'm possibly the most skeptical person here.

Oops, I probably shouldn't have said that- they look like they're going to kill him. Luckily Brit saved the moment, 'Look, anyone who wants to kill the dude has to come past me!' Ha. That stopped 'em. 'He hasn't seen the texts. How could he? We guard them with our lives!' That's true. If I wasn't convinced before, I really am now. And I have been quiet for way too long, I don't like being ignored. 'He says he dreams the words.' And there's more, as Brit points out, 'He calls the chick Scaramouche'. I have to say, I find it absolutely hilarious how she doesn't like being referred to as a 'chick'. 'What is this chick business? Do I have feathers? Do I lay eggs?' It was quite funny really, when she said that all of us Bohemians got into position to have a better look. Just thought we'd check.

Actually, she has a point, why was the term 'chick' ever used? I'll have to find out. Maybe the Dreamer will know. But, Big Macca is explaining, 'Hey! Baby! We believe there was a time, when if a cool dude wished to refer to his red hot momma, he would use the term 'chick'. It was a mark of respect. Second only to 'bitch'.' She doesn't appear to like that either. Evidently Scaramouche is very hard to please, 'something tells me you've got that wrong.' Actually, when you think about it, she's got a point. It really does sound wrong, I mean, 'bitch' is more commonly used as an insult.

And now they're back on the texts. It would seem that being the Dreamer hasn't given him any knowledge of the past other than the past Globalsoft teaches. The texts are nothing more than fragments, as Big Macca is telling him. We find them, try and restore them, then protect them with out lives. We all love them; they're so different, almost unearthly. You can touch them for a start, like 'posters' and 'magazines'. We take our names from them; Aretha, Big Macca's real name is Paul McCartney, Madonna, Prince, Cliff Richard, Jackson Five, Bob- Bob the poet; Bob the rebel; Bob the prophet - Bob the Builder. And I'm Meat; Meatloaf; Miss Loaf. And Brit. He's explaining his name, that he's the 'biggest, baddest, meanest, nastiest, ugliest, most raging, rapping, rock'n'roll, sick, punk, heavy metal psycho bastard that ever got get-down funky.' Or, in other words, Britney Spears.

And we live in the Heartbreak Hotel. It's a rebel base, as Big Macca puts it, 'the last free-thinking zone on Planet Mall.'

Evidently Scaramouche is still confused. 'But how'd you get all this great stuff? I mean, you look fantastic!' Well, thanks, I guess. 'We find it! We're scavengers.' Couldn't be anything else outside the Globalsoft boarder. Ooh, I just had the best idea! 'Hey, do you fancy a makeover?' We look 'fantastic' and yet she isn't sure. She's a Bohemian now, she can't wear the same old clothes that she did as a sign of rebellion in the Globalsoft World. But, she really is hard to please.

Me:How about some tight jeans?

Scaramouche:I hate my bum.

Me:A short skirt?

Scaramouche:I hate my legs.

Me:A crop top?

Scaramouche:I hate my stomach and my hips…

Seriously, what do you do with someone like that? Apart from get them over their self esteem issues, obviously. Is there any part of her that she does like?

Scaramouche:… but I quite like my arms.

Me:Well then maybe you could-

Scaramouche:But not my hands.

Or not. Okay, think quickly before she changes her mind.

Me:So, you need something that accentuates your elbows!

She can't fault them, can she?

Me:There's loads of stuff back there, just have a laugh.

Far easier if she finds something herself. Wait a minute! What on earth does she mean, 'I was only having a laugh'??? I'm not one to take no as an answer, so I shove her out the back. As interesting as fashion is, far more interesting matters have arisen with the blokes; they don't seem to like us discussing clothes. And Big Macca didn't appear to like being interrupted. 'As I was saying.' Whoa, watch the tone dude. 'This is a rebel base. But it is also a shrine. A shrine to everything we believe in. And, a place to remember the long dead king.' Ah yes. Our king. I could recite Big Macca's speech about him in my sleep- it's the same every time someone joins us. 'Little is known about him, except that his name was Pelvis. A kid from nowhere, who sang like an angel, and danced like the devil. A teenage truck driver who broke free to become a mighty rebel - a rebel that spawned a thousand rebels!' And then Prince continues, 'But he was too wild, too free. And when he wiggled his hips he made the kids feel good about themselves! So they took him and they cut off his hair.'

I've never worked out why the army did that. Yes, as Big Macca says, 'They shaved off his cool, greasy, standup quiff, like he was a convict…' and they put him in the army. Really, why? Why waste all that pure, unadulterated talent? It was humiliating for him. Aretha continued with Big Macca's story, 'The king was forced to make foolish movies, singing nursery rhymes to gangs of grinning children. He was ashamed. It broke his spirit. He took refuge in drugs, pills and fast food.' I've also never worked out why, in Big Macca's way of telling the story, _I _don't have anything to say. Must be because I get the song. But, after Aretha's bit Big Macca continues again. Must like the sound of his own voice. 'Just like a million kids that followed. The king was dead, and many kings and heroes died thereafter. Their songs are lost, but their names live on. We remember the ones that died young. Buddy Holly. Jimi Hendrix.'

Yeah, the ones who died young, the great and the good. Like Big Macca said, Buddy Holly and Jimi Hendrix, as well as Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrisson, Bob Marley, John Lennon.

And then, it's my turn. Freddie. The best of them all.

I try to explain to the guy what we mean. No, Galileo. I've got to remember his name, I mean, he is the Dreamer. 'A hand above the water, an angel reaching for the sky.' That's what they were – drowning angels. 'Is it raining in heaven? Do you want us to cry?' He didn't want to die. None of them did. They were reaching for the sky; crying out for help. And what did they want us to do to remember their passing? To mourn them, or to make sure everyone else heard of them?

And when they died the left so many. I sighed, I don't know why I'm the one that has to tell this story, it's so difficulty, but, I've got to try, 'And everywhere the broken-hearted, on every lonely avenue… no one could reach them, no one but you.' But when the good died young, how many more broken hearted did they leave? Their story poses more questions than it answers.

'One by one, only the good die young. They're only flying too close to the sun, but life goes on without them.' But does it? Relate this to modern day; to our situation, take us as the good. Brit in particular. Would my life go on without him? I honestly don't know. But I don't think I'd want it to. I wandered over to Brit, at times like this you need those who are close to you to be close to you.

I trailed off, absorbed in thought about then, and now. It's much the same really, now's just another tricky situation, and I get to drowning in the blues, just as they did. And I find myself thinking, what would you do? What would they do in tricky situations? What should _we_ do?

I realised I'd stopped telling the story, and that Galileo was looking at me curiously, so I started to explain again. Why it was that they died so young. 'It was such an operation, forever paying every due… Hell, they made a sensation,' he still doesn't seem to understand though. 'They found a way through.' Found a way through to the other side. A way to reach the unreachable. To touch the untouchable. That would have been an operation in itself. It was finding a way through that killed them, one by one, only the good died young. I smiled weakly at Galileo, who seemed to understand what I meant now, 'They were only flying too close to the sun.'

And now we've been left to honour them, 'We'll remember forever.'

'And now, the party must be over,' I shrugged, 'I guess we'll never understand the sense of their leaving, was it the way it was planned?' But who does plan their leaving? Who understands, really, really, properly understands? No-one, and no-one ever will. All we can do is remember, forever. And we will. A final, lasting tribute.

I carried on explaining what we do to remember them, 'And so we grace another table, and raise our glasses one more time. There's a face at the window, and I ain't never, never saying goodbye.' Never say goodbye. Never forget. I never will, none of the Bohemians will, and as long as there are rebels wanting to understand the past, remember the ones who died young, they will never be forgotten. 'Galileo… they were only flying too close to the sun,' Flying too high. Taking a chance. 'and we're left, crying for nothing, crying for no one, no one but them.'

And then, there's contemplative silence. Only this time, it's broken by the return of Scaramouche. And she looks fantastic. Totally rock'n'roll. Only when that was said, it transpired that the Dreamer doesn't know what rock'n'roll is. 'So - you mean all those heroes died for rock'n'roll? But what is rock'n'roll?' Wasn't he listening to a word? Or is he merely not making it very obvious it's a rhetorical question? Incase anyone ever does wonder, they did die for rock'n'roll. But what _is _rock and roll? I'll let Brit answer that one.


	4. Hear The Cry Of Youth

**Hear The Cry Of Youth**

Which he does, exactly as I knew he would. 'Gazza, baby! Rock'n'roll is anything you want it to be!' Quite right too. 'It's sex!' Yup, definitely that. 'It's style!' Fishnets, corsets and boots. That's style. 'It's rebellion'. We're living outside the bounds of Globalsoft, of course it's rebellion. They call us the 'rebels'. 'It's freedom!' That too. Anything outside of Globalsoft is freedom. But the Dreamer doesn't appear satisfied with this. 'Yes, but – what actually is it?' Sex, style, rebellion and freedom. Other than that we don't know. Globalsoft fear it, we love it, anything more the only ones who could tell us are dead. We don't know what it is. We will one day though. We will.

Big Macca goes on to explain what we do know. And there's not a lot of that. 'But what we do know is that there somehow came a day when rock'n'roll - died. But, we all believe that in time, there will come a man who carries the past within him. You see, somewhere on Planet Mall there are instruments, there must be. And if Brit is right, you are the man who can find them.' The latter part doesn't seem to go down well with Galileo, he seems really worried by it actually. Must be the first time the poor boy's had any responsibility, and now he has to bring back the rock'n'roll vibe. 'Me? Excuse me, Britney, bring back rock'n'roll? But I wouldn't know where to start!' With your dreams, kid! It's what they're for isn't it?

But, it seems Brit has better ideas. 'You start with your baby of course, like me and Meat. Like you and Scaramouche! You see, Galileo, what passes for music these days is only created for money, which is why it has no soul. But when rock'n'roll began, do you know why they did it?' Oh dear, he doesn't know that either. At least we do. We can help him there, but then it's gotta be up to him.

'They did it for their babies, of course! They did it for a crazy little thing called love.' Which seems to be the essence of rock'n'roll. Sex, style, rebellion and freedom are all about love. The love of a way of life, a free life. No rules, just love. 'This thing, called love, I just can't handle it.' Brit tells Galileo. Can't handle 'it'? I laughed slightly; he probably means he can't handle me.

I rolled my eyes at Scaramouche, who seemed to have understood what he meant, 'This thing, called love, I must get round to it.'

'I ain't ready.'

It's a crazy little thing, love.

No one is ever ready for love, which is why they always mean to get round to it, but never do, so they can't handle it. That love can't be handled shows that it's free, which is also a fundamental part of rock'n'roll.

'Um, Meat? Can I ask you something?'

Ooh, sounds serious, I lead her to a quiet corner of the Heartbreak, 'Sure Hen, what is it?'

'Um, what is love?'

I nearly fainted with shock. She doesn't know what love is!? 'You really don't know?' She shook her head and mumbled something indistinguishable. 'Well, this thing called love, it cries like a baby in a cradle all night.'

Brit didn't seem to have got the message that it was girl talk time, either that or he'd been eavesdropping, and couldn't wait to add his opinion, 'It swings, it jives, it shakes all over like a jelly fish.'

I laughed at his definition, but it was fitting, 'I kinda like it, crazy little thing called love.' Yeah, I kinda like it. That indefinable quality, it cries, it swings, it jives. It's everything. Brit wandered back over to Galileo, who was surrounded by a hoard of female bohemians. 'Come on hen. Dance!' I got up and started to do one of the many things the Bohemians do best – dance.

I noticed Brit gesture over to me while talking to Galileo, 'There goes my baby, she knows how to rock 'n' roll'. Again, stating the obvious, course I do! I'm a bohemian, we all know how to rock'n'roll. How to be free. He continues talking to Galileo, presumably about me. Or at least it'd better be, 'She drives me crazy, she gives me hot and cold fever, she leaves me in a cool cool sweat.' Well, I hope so. I do my best.

I miss Galileo's next question, he asks it so softly, but I hear Brit's reply – I think everyone does, 'I gotta be cool, relax, get hip, get on my tracks take a backseat, hitchhike, take a long ride on my motorbike, until I'm ready. It's a crazy little thing called love.'

Galileo then starts to repeat what Brit said, but with a questioning tone, as though he's not sure he's got it right, 'I gotta be cool, relax, get hip, and get on my tracks.'

Scaramouche seemed to have given up on dancing, and had joined them, 'take a backseat, hitchhike, take a long ride on my motorbike.'

Although I don't mind dancing alone – it makes me the centre of attention, but it seemed like they were having a conversation I wouldn't want to be left out of, 'until I'm ready, crazy little thing called love.' Love. It is crazy, and while Brit may have meant he couldn't handle me, I can't handle it in general. I love Brit so much, and I don't think I've ever told him just how much, something I must get round to doing.

'Oh yeah!' I turn round in time to see Galileo and Scaramouche starting to dance, but properly, starting to let go.

And then who would show up, but Khashoggi, Killer Queen's Second-in-Command, her dogsbody, with all his little cronies, the secret police. 'Oh yeah indeed. So finally I'm checking into the Heartbreak Hotel. So, Mr McCartney, I say hello, and you say goodbye…' And with that the police push us all back, behind their laser beams. In the confusion Galileo and Scaramouche were left behind, Khashoggi evidently had plans for them. But, instead of running, they stood there, like they were shell-shocked. As though they knew it was the end and were waiting for Khashoggi to get them. Which he went to do. Brit couldn't let this happen; we couldn't have spent our lives searching for the vibe, only to have it snatched away so soon. He broke through the laser cage, 'No! You'll never take the Dreamer while I'm alive!'

I remember his last words so clearly, he told them to run, that the future of rock was theirs to save. Breaking through the cage sapped his strength and they gunned him down. He fell, and everything was lost. My life is over, I cannot go on. What is the point now? Galileo and Scaramouche will be captured, and Brit is dead. There is no point, the vibe is lost. Everything is gone. Globalsoft have won. 'One by one, only the good die young.' It's so ironic now, Brit, then Galileo and Scaramouche. One by one.


	5. Wheres And Whys And Living Lies

**Wheres And Whys, And Living Lies**

I can't believe it, Brit is dead. The love of my life is gone. Forever. I can never see him again, except in my mind. There I can still see him, falling. Before it all ends when everything goes black. Khashoggi has taken us - the remaining Bohemians, somewhere. I don't know where, but I don't care. I don't care about anything any more, now Brit is dead, everything is a blur. My vision obscured by tears, or by my mind, I don't know which. We are seated with the Globalsoft doctors, or surgeons, whatever they are on some stairs to the side of us. The have some sort of power over us, and they're wiping our minds. I still don't care though, if my mind is wiped I'll lose that image of Brit falling. Falling into eternity. And then Khashoggi is here, talking to us, trying to extract every shred of knowledge we have of the past before our minds are wiped. 'What do you know of the phrase 'living rock'? Where is the place of champions?' He still doesn't seem to get it, we don't know. Only the dreamer does, and he's gone. Someone is answering him, I don't know who, 'They're freedom words, pig! Words the Dreamer used! We don't know what they mean!' Freedom words, I know they are, but I'm not free any more. Rock'n'roll was about freedom, but you did it for love. And my love is gone.

Before Khashoggi can reply on of the doctor people interrupts, a cold soulless voice, 'He tells the truth, Commander Khashoggi. I've applied a search program to one of his brain functions and I find no evidence of deceit.' We're Bohemians, we aren't deceitful. Except that Dreamer scum who brought them to us, and took Brit away from me. I told Brit he was a spy. 'Pity! Hurt him anyway!' I feel like screaming out, asking them not to - to hurt me instead, I'm not being noble, that pain can't be worse than what I'm going through at the moment. It might be a distraction pain.

'Flash! Aah!'

And then Khashoggi adds, 'And I would rather you did not call me 'pig'.' So what? I would rather Brit was not dead, but we can't always have what we want. Someone yells back 'Pig's too good for you!' Whoever they are, they're right, and I thank them. 'Hurt her, too!' No, hurt ME damn you!

'Flash! Aah!'

'In fact – hurt them all!' Yes, thank you! Make my pain go away.

'Flash! Aah!'

'For what it's worth, your 'Dreamer' knows no more about the place of living rock than you or I. He's just a poor idiot, parroting phrases he does not understand. Still, he led me to you, and for that I am grateful.' He's wrong. He's not the Dreamer, he was a spy. But if Khashoggi believes him to be the Dreamer, maybe he is, was. But, whoever that Galileo was, I hate him. He brought them, and they took Brit away from me. And then Khashoggi turns to me, 'Good night, Miss Loaf…..'. And then everything goes blank as my mind starts to be played with, I am still capable of thought, but I have no knowledge.

Khashoggi starts to walk between us, whispering menacingly, 'Fear me you lords and lady preachers, I descend upon your Earth from the skies.' He then straightens up and shouts, 'I command your very souls you unbelievers! Bring before me what is mine!' He turns to one of the SPOs who are standing at the side of the room, waiting for their instructions, 'The Seven Seas of Rhye.' He looks curiously at the Bohemian next to him, whose mind is being wiped, 'Can you hear me you peers and privy councilors? I stand before you naked to the eyes.' He laughs evilly, a hollow laugh, cold, cruel and calculating, 'I will destroy any man who dares abuse my trust, I swear that you'll be mine! The Seven Seas of Rhye!' Why does he keep saying that? I've got the message! I know that's where I'm being sent.

'Sister – I live and lie for you. Mister – do and I'll die. You are mine I possess you. I belong to you forever-ever-ever-aah.' What is he on about? I thought we were the ones who were meant to be having our minds wiped.

Khashoggi has reached the end of the row of us and starts to walk past me. As he does so I see Brit falling, falling, falling. Soon I know I will forget that look upon his face, as though he were happy in the knowledge he died a martyr. Died for the vibe, the dream. Why did he have to do that – break through the barrier? He knew it would end in his death. Why did he have to leave me? Why did he have to die? Why him, why?

'Storm the master-marathon I'll fly through, by flash and thunder-fire and I'll survive – I'll survive – I'll survive!' Okay, it's official. The Commander of the Secret Police has totally lost it. 'Then I'll defy the laws of nature and come out alive. Then I'll get you!' He says that last bit solely to me, looking right into the depths of my eyes, like he's looking into my soul. I look back blankly into his, into the soulless eyes of a cold-blooded killer. He shakes his head softly and turns to an SPO and nods. Then everything goes black as my mind is wiped. I look frantically around to see if any of the others are still 'alive', to try and tell them that if they survive they have to remember, carry on being Bohemians, not to give up. I can't make eye contact with any of them, and they all have the same empty stare, and I realise I'm the last. That Khashoggi saved me to last, to torture me longer with the knowledge that Brit's killer will finally get me.

'Be gone with you – you shod and shady senators. Give out the good, leave out the bad evil cries. I challenge the mighty Titan and his troubadours.' The man in front of me turns, stretches out his arms, as though encompassing everyone in the room and shouts with, what could only be described as glee. 'And with a smile, I'll take you to the Seven Seas of Rhye!'

The Seven Seas? I like the sea. Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside. Oh, I do like to be beside the sea. There are lots of girls beside, oh I do like to be beside, beside the seaside, beside the sea.

I can still see someone falling, falling, falling. Falling in slow motion on that endless fall to nowhere. Then my mind goes blank, an empty void and everything is black. Gone.


	6. Raise Our Glasses One More Time

**Raise Our Glasses One More Time**

I don't know where I am, but there's lots of nice bubbly liquid stuff, and it tastes goooood. And it makes me forget, I don't know what it is I'm meant to be forgetting though. Oh no! I just ate my gnome! It's a game Big Macca – I think that's his name, and I play. On top of the bottle is a little gnome, and before you drink you have to take off his little hat, and then him. And I forgot and I just swallowed him! And there's that nice old man with all the bubbly stuff. Doodleypop I think his name is. And he's singing, I wish he wouldn't though. It hurts my head. And he looks so patronizing. Oowww! Noise! It's coming from a young man, and there's a girl with him. She looks pretty good. Nice sense of style. He's talking to Big Macca, I've never seen him before though. He must have the wrong person – not be completely right in the head. I'll be tactful. He's calling himself the Dreamer, Galileo Figaro. Cool name I must say.

I was right, he has got the wrong guy. Ooh, what's happened? I got distracted by my foot. What does he mean, 'Buy us a drink'? He can't ask a stranger that! Oh, what the hell. 'Come on, you heard the man, buy us a soddin' drink!'. That ought to do it. Hey! I wanted a drink! But at least he's left us alone. Ooh look, a flutterby thing! It's pretty. Wait! What did he say? Where are the green fairies? I want one! It'll replace my gnome! I won't swallow it this time. I promise! I want one, and I want it now! Pretty please.

_Is this the real life  
Is this just fantasy  
Caught in a landslide  
No escape from reality  
Open your eyes  
Look up the skies, and see –_

Ooh, it's the pretty recording. I want it! Dance girl! Oh, no, can't stand up.

What did Doodleypop do to Cliff? Why is he on the floor? I hope he's okay.

It's that noise again. I don't like it.

Wheels? They need a bicycle!

Bicycle! Bicycle! Bicycle!

Well would ya look at that. Great minds think alike. Wait, that's not a bicycle! It's COOL! And it sounds humungous. Why are they getting on? I want to go to! Why can't I go? Oh, they've gone. That's so mean. Oooh, it's the flutterby again!


	7. Here's To The Future

**Here's To The Future**

Ooh, can't stand. Or at least it's difficult. But by now I think I've lost the flutterby. Where did they go? The guy and girl that is, and Doodleypop. And why didn't they take me? I could've been useful. Well, not really if I can't stand, but the potential is there. I feel different, like my inhibitions are returning, like I'm gaining control of my limbs and thoughts. Like I no longer think scattered, irrelevant and disconnected thoughts with no logic. And I can think rationally, not just in terms of emotion. I'm still spinning though – literally, a little haphazardly but, I'm upright.

Then, there's a hard to place sound, I know it's important and that I know it like it's ingrained in my soul. Everything's changing as I turn around. But I'm no longer totally out of control. It's a kind of thumping or stamping beat, followed by claps. Stamp stamp clap, stamp stamp clap. Thud thud clap, thud thud clap. A reverberating, echoing beat.

It seems the others can hear it too, they're all sobering up as it were. Then, there's a momentary blip – not in the beat, in something else. I don't know what though. The others have heard it too, and they're following the sound. Well, I'm not being left behind, even if I am following total strangers in a zombie like state to I don't know where, but it can't be worse than this dump.

The beat is stronger now, reiterated by a loud noise, loud but nice. I can place that previous noise now, it was similar to this one, except this one is in tune, and works. Then I find I know the people I'm following, and they know each other, and they know me. They're the Bohemians. We are the Bohemians. The ones who broke free and took a chance. Fought for freedom and liberty.

We're walking, doggedly following the trail, all through a barren wasteland that I now recognize as the Bohemian Land, the edge of what the GaGas would class as 'civilisation'. Then, we're all simultaneously strengthened and weakened. Like people know our message, and are following it, but are prevented by some invisible oppressive force. Then, a moment later, the force is gone. We're all strengthened and I can remember, remember everything this time though. My first thought is of Brit. I spin around, searching the faces, but he isn't there. So it was true, he is dead. Dead and gone from me. Never to return.

The beat is strengthening with every step I take, as am I. And I can hear a voice, which I recognize as Galileo. I can't see him, but we can all hear him – he seems to be having the time of his life. _'Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise, playing in the street, gonna be a big man some day, you got mud on your face, you big disgrace, kicking your can all over the place.'_

It all takes me back to when I first saw Brit at the game. He had mud on his face, he'd fallen over bless him. He'd just been a boy playing in the street, he was a big man now. It was the crowd making the noise, not Brit – they were screaming. He'd disgraced himself by falling. Then the next time I saw him, while he was walking along with his date. She tossed her soup away all over my clean laundry, later he told me he'd hated the whole evening; she'd loved it but hadn't been best pleased when he started kicking a can on the way home.

It hurts so much to remember, the pain has returned, but my mind is hazy. I can remember him dying, being taken to Globalsoft HQ, and Khashoggi dancing around singing. Then nothing – if I think really hard I can remember fragments – falling over, demanding drink off of someone, but not much until the beat and 'waking up' with the Bohemians on my way here.

The force of the beat is so strong now, we are almost propelled the final distance, but are barred. Locked gates bar our way, but Scaramouche and Pop are there. She shows us an instrument – a real instrument, none of our wood and wire concoctions from before. A proper instrument. Pop breaks the lock, and we surge through and sing. Then I realize that what we are singing is where the beat is coming from.

_We will, we will rock you  
We will, we will rock you_

Then Galileo starts singing again, _'Buddy, you're a young man, hard man, shouting in the street, gonna take on the world some day, you got blood on your face, you big disgrace, waving your banner all over the place.'_

It's almost as though he's telling Brit's life story. We're back at the moment before we met Scaramouche and Galileo. It wasn't all that long ago in reality. He was a young man, a hard man – or at least he gave that impression. He was shouting, telling me that we were gonna take on the world, that we were getting it all. I worried about him getting hurt, making a disgrace of himself, not that he could ever have done that in the eyes of the Bohemians. Or me. He could never disgrace himself to me. Then we ran along with Galileo and Scaramouche down to the Heartbreak, he was waving his banner – cheering. He'd found the Dreamer.

We repeat our lines again, 'we will, we will rock you! We will, we will rock you!' We told Galileo and Scaramouche that rock solved everything – it was about love, and that you did it for your baby. Brit did it for me – rocked for me.

Galileo is singing again, continuing Brit's story, _'Buddy, you're an old man, poor man, pleading with your eyes, gonna make you some peace some day, you got mud on your face, you big disgrace, somebody better put you back into your place.'_

This fits, but at the same time it doesn't. He wasn't old, he wasn't poor – not in the materialistic sense. Bohemians may not have much, but we've got each other, we've got the vibe. And we've got love. And love is all you need. I saw his eyes in that final, fleeting moment – he was pleading, he wasn't ready to die. He had peace, now, then – not in the future, not someday. In the present. Maybe he metaphorically had 'mud on his face' and just maybe he was a disgrace – a disgrace to Globalsoft, but not to us. Never to us. I feel like screaming – making Galileo tell the story right. He didn't need to be put back in his place – it was with me, and now he's gone. But the beat is too strong, overpowering, and I force myself to remember that the vibe is what Brit lived for. And ultimately what he died for.

_We will, we will rock you  
We will, we will rock you  
We will, we will rock you  
We will, we will rock you_

It seems a fitting end, but Galileo doesn't seem to realize, or if he does, he doesn't care. He carries on singing, _'I've paid my dues, time after time, I've done my sentence, but committed no crime.'  
_

I still feel like screaming at him – he hasn't paid, he hasn't done his sentence. But he has committed a crime. Brit died because of him! I hate him!

'_And bad mistakes, I've made a few, I've had my share of sand, kicked in my face, but I've come through.'_

It wasn't a mistake! I knew he was a spy! I don't damn well care if he's come through! What about Brit? He didn't!

Galileo turns to all of us and shouts, like he's trying to inspire us, 'And we mean to go on and on and on and on. We are the champions my friends! And we'll keep fighting till the end!'

It's all I can do, go on; keep fighting till the end. Brit did, I can do no less. He fought till the very end, I owe it to him to go on. I don't want to, I want to be with him – where ever that is. Even if it means I die.

'_We are the champions, we are the champions, no time for losers, 'cause we are the champions of the world!'_

We're only the champions if Globalsoft are finished. If they aren't we're back to the way it was before. Living on the edge, as outcasts. And does he mean Brit was a loser? He can't, can he? I'm about to yell at him for saying that, but he's continued.

'_We are the champions, my friends and we'll keep on fighting till the end, we are the champions we are the champions, no time for losers, 'cause we are the champions of the world!'_

'No time for losers'? Ha, when Galileo repeats it I remember Brit's opinion of them. No time for those damn GaGa Kids - he couldn't stand them. They didn't have time for us, we don't have time for them. They're the ones that lost – they denied rock, and followed 'noise'. GaGa music can't be described as anything else, and it makes me realize that we are the champions of the world. We will be, we will.


	8. There's A Face At The Window

**There's A Face At The Window**

I sink to the floor as everyone around me disperses – to party I guess. I can't, not without Brit. Shadows play on my mind, dancing shadows of yesterday. An ethereal tune starts in my head, and I hear someone start to sing, it takes me a moment before it registers that the voice is Brit's. 'Just killed a man, put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead.' What is he talking about? I don't understand, maybe metaphorically he did kill himself – after all no one forced him to break through the laser cage, but he never pulled the trigger. Never intended to die. 'Life had just begun, but now I've gone and thrown it all away'. I turn, and he's there, but not there. He's translucent, a shadow of the man he was. A ghost. He walks towards me, a solitary tear forming in the corner of his eye before falling down his cheek. He reaches me and stretches out a hand and lifts my face to look at him, while helping me stand. 'Didn't mean to make you cry if I'm not back again this time tomorrow'. For the first time in my memory Brit has left me confused, doesn't he realize he's dead? He stops singing and talks to me, telling me to carry on as if nothing really matters. Doesn't he realize I can't do that? It does matter, he's dead! I can't carry on.

I open my mouth, but I can't speak, it's too late, my time has come. It's my time to join him. He came back for me. He realizes what it is I'm trying to say, and slowly shakes his head. The look he gives me sends shivers down my spine – it's so eloquent it says it all – it's not my time. I'm not ready to leave everyone behind and face the truth. I don't want to die, but him leaving me makes me wish I'd never been born at all. But then, I'd never have met Brit.

I stare intently at him, searching for any hint of Brit being there physically, rather than spiritually, but I can find none. 'I see a little silhouetto of a man'. And in reality that's all Brit is – a silhouette, a walking shadow. 'Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango?' It takes a moment for me to remember the first conversation we ever heard Galileo and Scaramouche having. He asked her to do the fandango. I don't understand why Brit is talking about this - it's not relevant. 'Thunderbolt and lightning – very very frightening me!' I am frightened, what he's saying doesn't make any sense.

Brit seems to feel my fear and explains his meaning very simply – 'Forgive them. They're young, I didn't die for them, I died for you. So you could be free. There is no such thing as life worth living if you aren't free. Free yourself babe, don't cling to my memory. Live.' I scream back at him, 'I can't live without you! I don't want to be free! Not without you! Brit, I'm begging you, please don't leave me. Please. Not again.'

'Babe, I'm not here to go again. I am gone.' His words shatter my already broken heart. Brit has clearly decided his work here is not yet done, my hatred for Galileo and Scaramouche is still as intense as ever. He whispers to me, 'Galileo… Galileo… Galileo… Galileo…' he tries one last time to get make me see sense, this time by using his full name, 'Galileo Figaro magnifico. Forgive him. Forgive him and Scaramouche. Babe, it's a tough world out there, and they're going to need you, just as much as you need them. I know you don't want to hear it but you do need them. you need the dream. You've got a chance to succeed, forgive them, don't let me have died in vain. Forgive them.' That works, and I feel my hatred start to dissipate. I can't forgive them for me, but I will for Brit.

'I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me'. Where did that come from? Everyone loves him - he's Brit! 'Brit… how can you say that?' I choke. 'I love you, of course I do, I always have and I always will.' My words are like Galileo's were when we first met him – stuttered. But mine are through bitter sobs, not nerves. 'I have forgiven them.' 'No you haven't babe. Not really, forgive them properly, forgive Galileo properly. He didn't mean for me to die. He's just a poor boy, from a poor family. Spare him his life from this monstrosity.' Before I can interrupt him, he continues, sensing my confusion. 'It's what you will become babe if you don't learn to forgive and forget. Easy come, easy go.' He turns towards me, staring intently, deeply into my eyes – my very soul, 'Will you let me go?'

'Bismillah! No, we will not let you go'. I can't do it, I can't let him go. And if they were here, the other Bohemians wouldn't either, so I've taken it upon myself to speak for all of us. 'We will not let you go. We will not let you go.' The look Brit gives me pleads with me, wrestles with my soul, 'let me go'. 'Will not let you go'. He repeats his request, though this time it's more of a statement, 'let me go'. As hard as I try, I still can't find it in myself to let go once and for all, 'Will not let you go.' He looks at me, challenging my conscience, 'Babe, let me go.' Normally Brit is a placid kind of guy, very easy going but I can detect an underlying force, a resolve, he wants to go. I can finally acknowledge this – I've got to let him go physically, but I'll always remember, forever. We'll remember forever. 'I'll never forget, I'll never let you go.' I whisper to him. I can't - I won't. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

'Oh mama mia, mama mia. Mama mia let me go.' It is then that I am able to accept his total determination to go. I can't keep him in this half-life of eternal torment, and I nod, acquiescing. The wind starts to rise from barely there to a gentle breeze, scarcely enough for me to feel it, but enough to start to push Brits spirit form back away from me. Ignoring this, he continues to talk to me, 'Thank you' he murmurs. 'Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me.' The glint in his eye suggests he is looking forward to this, and has no fear.

The wind continues to push him, breaking our fragile hand hold, and he leaves my grasp. The momentary comfort I had from him is leaving, 'So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye. So you think you can love me and leave me to die'. That's what he's done, left me to die. I'm nothing without him, in spite of my earlier resolve. I finally do what I have been trying not to all the time since his death, but now I can't stop myself, 'Oh baby, can't do this to me baby'. The wind relaxes but his voice is brought back to me, 'Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here… Nothing really matters, anyone can see, nothing really matters. Say it Meat.' His conviction gives me the strength to carry on, 'nothing really matters to me…' My voice starts to break as the wind rises again, stronger this time and Brit is blown back, his form fading in the dimming light until he disappears from my view entirely. I fall to the floor, my heart breaking in despair, my body wracked with sobs. I've seen him for the last time, now he's truly gone. I ain't never saying goodbye, the good died young. The wind has died; leaving an ethereal, ghostly calm over the wasteland. As I being to fall into what I hope will be my last sleep his voice is brought back to me, one last time.

'Any way the wind blows…'


End file.
